


Travels With Angels in Search of America

by Lassroyale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Conversations, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Mild Angst, Post-Apocalypse, Resolved Sexual Tension, Road Trips, Romance, Secret Angels Dean/Castiel Fic Exchange, Slow Build, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-24
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassroyale/pseuds/Lassroyale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the big showdown leaves the Winchesters with more questions than answers and God sends Castiel on a road trip across the U.S to see the world’s largest chocolate moose. Along the way some answers are found, more questions are asked, and Sam and Dean just maybe, discover there’s more to life than hunting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for livejournal user 'trinityofone' for a Dean/Castiel fic exchange. The prompts given to me are as follows:
> 
> "Post-apocalypse, Dean and Sam and Cas (depowered or not) try to adjust to living and hunting together. Just when they're starting to get in the groove, Dean and Cas get together and make it weird again. (A strong Sam & Cas friendship in this would be great!) and Something with all kinds of conversations Dean and Cas (and Sam) have about essentially nothing—banter and hanging out and bonding."

**  
The Four Corners Monument, Four Corners, United States – 7:43AM, Mountain Standard Time   
**

  
_The world is filled the essence of death. The rain is dry - ash and cinder, the blackened cast-off of a toxic blizzard. It's early, still morning. Somewhere in the tar-thick darkness the sun crawls blindly along its path. The air is poison. A single breath makes the lungs sootier than a mineworker of twenty-some years._

 _Castiel sticks out his tongue, tasting soot and the aftertaste of cooked flesh. It coats the inside of his mouth, already damp with blood, his lips cracked and scorched by the heat that washed across the landscape moments ago when Hellfire burst forth from the earth and lashed out at anyone unfortunate enough to bear witness._

 _Hellfire continues to spout from the cracked Four Corners Monument, a geyser of flame miles high. It licks at the air, a burning tongue that bubbles his vessel’s flesh whenever he draws too near._ Cooked flesh, mine—no, Jimmy’s. Charred to perfection. _The flame fattens and coils, licking a hot stripe across everything it touches. It makes Castiel aware of the heat in a way he would not have been were he not bound to his vessel’s flesh and bones._

 _From as far as the eye can see, demon-possessed bodies converged on the Four Corners monument, carrying the souls of the innocent with them. Like a river, the demons cast themselves into the Hellfire - vessels cast aside, burned away to ash. Castiel can feel the souls of the innocents beneath the demons’ malice; scared, shriveled things that scream as they’re burned away in the Hellfire. Briefly, he feels regret for the souls that the demons have taken and destroyed._ I can taste your souls in my lungs. I’ll pray for you. _The demons writhe in the flames: wild, free, flowing around each other, through each other. It is a bacchanalian dance set to the music of howls and screams. They draw vitality from death, inhaling the ash that is to them the cleanest of air._

 _And in the center of it all, his fingers sliding through the fire, is the piper of the damned: Lucifer, wearing Sam Winchester's skin._

 _Lucifer’s laughter is a demented soundtrack in the background, a hum in Castiel's ears that means little as he searches through the rubble of the destroyed Four Corners monument with a single goal: Find Dean. He searches, looking for that needle in the haystack; steadfast, though urgent. The light of his Grace streams through the cracks of his skin in response to Lucifer's presence. His back itches; he wishes to fight._

 _Castiel keeps searching, knuckles white, hands cramped into fists._

 _He can't risk shedding Jimmy Novak's skin and revealing his true form. He can't risk drawing Lucifer's attention, currently occupied by the twists of light that spiral down from a sudden opening in the darkness. Angels, their true forms signatures of awesome energy that resonates in their own key, streak towards the ground, falling stars with teeth and razor-sharp wings._

 _Part of Castiel sings out, notes struck along each of his ribs, responding the call to arms. He ignores it, though it pains him to do so. Finding Dean is simply more important._ To who? To me? _Even so, his very nature seeks to join his brothers' and sisters’ war song._ Come brother, come sister! To victory we march! __

 _The angels streak towards Lucifer and crash against the demons surrounding him in a coalescence of darkness and light. They fuse together into indistinguishable shapes and forms, slide apart, Hellfire and Holy Light, oil and water._

 _Castiel keeps searching through the rubble with persistent single-mindedness, looking for Dean, a hunter in a sooty coat torn and hanging off him in strips, singed around the hem, blackened by soot and debris._

 _He sees what he's searching for when he stumbles over his own feet, his slowly fracturing self-control and the pull to battle dragging him in too many directions at once. A ragged cry escapes him, yanked from the bottom of his chest, when he sees the bit of bone and flesh sticking up through the dirt – part of a hand. The fingernails are broken and bloodied, fingers twisted and bent._ Dean's _fingernails._ Dean's _fingers._

 _Castiel pulls himself atop the rubble and begins digging through dirt and stone, his bare hands turned into shovels that tear and bleed. His vessel’s flesh rips in strips. The nails of his fingers crack and split off. His palms sting, the rapidly appearing cuts soon gritty with blood and sand._

 _He smells Dean's burnt flesh in his nostrils. He feels Dean's pain in his soul. Castiel keeps digging._

 _His hands seem heavy and clumsy, knuckles too swollen, palms too slick, but Castiel manages to move enough dirt and broken concrete to grasp Dean's arm in one hand. He pulls. Dean is dead weight, but Castiel pulls him from the earth with ease as if Dean’s nothing but skin and hollow bones. His face is littered with cuts and bruises that mar his features in red, black, and blue. Castiel cradles him gingerly, soft and gentle, as he catalogs Dean's numerous injuries with a light graze of bloody fingers across his body. He smears crimson across Dean's cheek, a stripe of ink bleeding off the pages of a wrecked tome._ So many, so many, here, and here, and broken, broken, broken. __

 _"Dean," he says. His voice is an urgent hum, smothered by the sounds of open war that swirl around them. An explosion rocks the air, sending shock waves of energy outwards for miles. Beneath the explosion is the sound of broken glass. There is discordance in the song. An angel has fallen._

 _Shards of broken Grace, sharp as needles and hotter than lava, rain down as the angel is dispersed by the demon horde. Castiel barely notices. His attention is solely for Dean, lying in his arms, as limp and lifeless as a ragdoll. Right now, his world holds nothing else, though the battle rages on._

 _"DEAN!" Castiel yells this time, his true voice coating the human vocal chords of his vessel. His speech is warped, a tuning fork dipped in liquid silver and struck against granite, more his own and not his own all at once._ I’ve gotten used to Jimmy's voice, my voice, his voice… Mine. _He presses his lips to Dean's ear and whispers desperately. "Please, Dean, wake up." Part of him is shocked to see that his vessel's hands tremble, as he clutches Dean's broken body against him. Part of him is not._

 _A buzz rumbles beneath the burnt desert landscape, barely noticeable at first, covered by the cacophony of the battle. It grows stronger, until Castiel is not the only one to notice it. A murmur runs through the angelic song even as the demons loose a single, long yowl of anticipation._

 _Lucifer has called Beelzebub to him – his Chief Lieutenant, one of the princes of Hell. Without Michael here the battle could easily turn in the demons’ favor, but Castiel can’t seem to bring himself to care. Not when Dean is lying broken in his arms and won’t wake up._

 _Castiel presses his face into Dean's neck. His lips move, tattooing a prayer against Dean’s skin._ Please wake up, you need to wake up. _He lifts his head and looks again at Dean’s slack, bruised face. “Please,” Castiel whispers. “Please, Dean.”_

 __I need you. __

 _Dean opens his eyes._


	2. Chapter 2

  
** The Little Pine Truck Stop – Home of Henry the Bear, Mitchell, OR – 11:08AM, Pacific Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 0_

  
Dean doesn’t know why he should be surprised to see a bear at a gas station, but he is. The bear’s name is Henry, which he secretly thinks it’s a silly name for an 800-pound animal. He thinks the bear should be named Axel, or Mick, or… something tough. That is, he does until Hugh Reed, the pump owner, opens the door to the two-story cage and moseys in to feed the bear a cookie. Dean decides Henry is an appropriate name as he cranes his head a bit to watch the bear take the cookie with a grumbling sniff that reminds him of Chewbacca. Hugh is a bear himself; hulking, with a grizzled beard like a mountain man. It suits him, Dean thinks. He also thinks Hugh has balls of fucking steel to march his seventy-something year old ass into that cage on a daily basis when Henry looks like would as soon bite off Hugh’s hand as he would devour a box of Oreos.

Thing is, Henry does no such thing and in fact lets that long tongue of his loll out to lick the crumbs from Hugh’s palms. “Balls of fucking steel,” Dean mutters, grudgingly impressed.

“I doubt that that man has _'balls of steel'_ ,” says Castiel, appearing suddenly beside him. “It would not be conducive to reproduction.”

Dean didn't hear Cas walk up. That bothers him. He turns slightly and watches as Castiel takes a bite out of a Twinkie, looking ruminative for a second before finishing it off in another large bite. He looks like he can't decide whether or not he likes it. Dean doesn't blame him.

“That shit will kill you,” he says in reply, rolling his eyes and trying not to look as Cas sucks the crème off of one finger with a long pull from knuckle to tip. Dean feels a bit like a lecher even thinking the action lewd but there he is, watching slightly dumbfounded as Cas repeats the action four more times, unaware of the blatant innuendo. “Um, do you want a napkin or anything?” Dean asks, irritated by how uncomfortable watching Cas has made him.

Castiel shakes his head and looks over his shoulder as Sam comes walking up with two coffees. Dean takes the offered coffee and pops the lid to check: double cream, double sugar. Sam rolls his eyes, taking a careful sip from his own – black – and turns slightly to watch Hugh exit Henry's cage.

“Alright Cas,” says Dean, his expression hardening as he catches Castiel's eye and holds it, “so now would be the time to tell us why you had us drive all the way out to the boonies, to see some old guy's pet bear.”

“This is Oregon, Dean, not the 'boonies', Dean,” Castiel says in reply, though his features are settled into an expression of utmost gravity. “I wanted to tell you and Sam that we must go on a trip across the country to visit the world's largest chocolate moose,” he continues without preamble.

Dean spits out a mouthful of coffee... right onto Sam's shirt. Sam lets out an undignified sputter, which Dean doesn't hear. He's too busy staring at Cas like he's just grown a pair of rabbit ears. Something that might be annoyance passes over him as he watches Cas reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of napkins, which he then hands to Sam, but Dean's too stunned to acknowledge it. He waits for an answer. A few seconds of stunned silence pass, before Dean asks, “What?”

“We must go on… I believe you would call it a 'road trip', to see the world's largest chocolate moose.” When Dean doesn't reply, Castiel adds, “It's in Maine.”

Behind Castiel, Sam, who had been dabbing violently at the coffee stain on his shirt, stops suddenly and looks up quickly, as if gauging Dean's reaction. Dean gives his brother a significant look, but strangely, Sam only looks away and resumes dabbing a sopping napkin at his shirt, distractedly.

“Oh this is rich,” mutters Dean. He looks closely at the angel, but there is no guile in Castiel's eyes. “Why do _we_ have to go on this road trip with you?” he asks. “Can't you just 'poof' there and call us when you're done?”

“The battle at Four Corners drained much of my power,” Castiel says, finally breaking Dean's gaze and looking away, “I cannot travel as I used to. Until I am back to full strength, I am stuck using your human mode of transport.” He drops his eyes to the Impala, meaningfully.

Sam gives up on his shirt. “So did,” Sam asks, before pausing to looks at Dean, “you... you know?” At Castiel's blank look, Sam asks, “Did you fall? Are you… human now?|”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, I retain my Grace.” he replies. “You could say that I need to 'recharge my battery.'”

“Well that's great, Cas,” Dean says sarcastically, “I'll pay for your bus ticket and you can recharge on the way. Thanks, but no thanks.” He turns away from Castiel when he feels a hand on his elbow. A jolt travels up his arm to his shoulder, making his fingers twitch before he can stop them. “ _What_?” he grinds out.

“God has commanded me to go,” says Castiel seriously, as if that should explain everything. In a way, Dean supposes it does. He sees Sam swing around to look at him, though his expression isn't so much incredulous as it is curious.

“Really Cas, _God_ told you to go and see the biggest chocolate moose in the world?” says Dean, not bothering to keep the disbelief from his tone.

“Yes,” says Castiel, dropping his hand, “it's in Scarborough.”

“Right, Scarborough. Well ain't that just _wicked_ good.”

“There is nothing wicked about chocolate or moose.”

“Look, just because you heard a voice--”

“God.”

“--doesn't mean that we have to go traipsing across the country -”

“Dean,” says Sam, speaking up, trying to cut across his brother's words.

“--because you think that you heard _God_ tell you to take a stupid road trip. And even if you—“

“ _Dean._ ”

“--really did hear God speak to you, that doesn't mean that we have to--”

“DEAN!” Sam bellows, loudly enough that his voice carries across the parking lot drawing a few curious looks from some of the bystanders loitering by Henry’s cage. In the cage, Henry vocalizes his displeasure with a rumbly grumble.

“ _What_ , Sam?” acknowledges Dean finally, exasperation clearly stitched into his tone.

“I think we should go.”

“See Cas – wait, what? Excuse me?” says Dean, rounding on his brother. “What do you mean, 'we should go'?”

“I think he wants to see the chocolate moose, Dean,” says Castiel, glancing at Sam, “I hear it's very life-like.”

“So you guys have talked?” says Dean, suddenly suspicious. From the guilty look that Sam gives Castiel and Castiel's affirmative nod, he knows he's right.

“Well, sorta,” hedges Sam. “I just think, given the circumstances and everything that has happened, it couldn't hurt.”

“So you _have_ talked.” Dean's voice is low, dangerous, and _quiet_. Sam takes a step back. Castiel, however, moves forward into his personal space.

“This is as much for me as it is for you,” he says, his face too close, as he fixes Dean with a stare that burns him. Then, he places his hand on Dean's arm again. “Please Dean, my Father wishes for me to go to Maine and you are the only one I trust to bring me there.”

Dean's resolve wavers. He curses and yanks his arm from Cas' grip. The air is charged; they're waiting for his answer. “Fine,” he concedes at last, giving the Impala a critical once-over. “I've gotta put some air in her tires, get some supplies and we'll head out in 15 minutes.”

Sam releases a sigh of relief and wanders over to Henry's cage, clearly wishing to avoid any further interaction with his brother right then. Sam always was the smart one. Castiel lingers, watching Dean intently for a minute or so as Dean frowns down into his coffee, his brow creased in frustration. Castiel gives him a smile that looks out of place alongside the discontented expression Dean's wearing. “Thank you,” he says.

“Whatever Cas,” Dean replies with forced nonchalance, unable to decide how or if he should accept the smile or the thanks. “Just know that if my baby breaks down along the way, God owes me a new car.”


	3. Chapter 3

** The Polar Bear Exhibit, The San Diego Zoo, San Diego, CA – 1:01PM, Pacific Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 1,022_

  
Dean wonders what's so goddamn interesting about polar bears. He can't see their appeal; sure they're big, and white, and probably some of the fiercest creatures this side of the Arctic – but to him they're just boring.

One of them – a big male – suddenly glides into the water after a fish that one of the keepers tossed into the pen. Dean hangs back, leaning against the outside wall of the enclosure with a slight look of disapproval, as Castiel presses his face right up against the glass – right against it, there's kids' fingerprints _all_ over the thing and while Dean has been covered in a fair amount of disgusting crap in his life, he knows the hands of children are some of the filthiest things on earth – and stares intently at the polar bear as if he is communicating with it.

Which, Dean supposes, is entirely possible.

He pushes away from the wall when he sees Sam duck out of the men's bathroom. He sidles up to his brother with a lazy slouch, hands in his pocket, every line of his body screaming discontent. Sam sighs and gives him a look that tells him he's being a child.

Yeah, well, so fucking _what_?

“Can you tell me again why we're here, Sammy?” Dean asks, voice tense, teeth tight.

Sam shrugs, avoiding his gaze as he pats down his pockets as if looking for loose change. He digs out fifty cents and reaches across Dean to drop it into the little machine that spits out half-melted candy for money. Dean looks at the small pile of candy in Sam's hand and considers it, but he's not a big fan of Runts. Besides, he'd given his last bit of change and a few dollars to Cas, who still hadn't grasped the concept of paying for food.

 _'That hotdog better have been fucking delicious,'_ Dean mutters, watching critically as Sam palms the candy all in one go, leaving his hand sticky with yellow and orange residue.

“What?” asks Sam around a mouthful of Runts. Since when did Sam like candy so much? The world had really been turned on its ear, if the Winchesters spending the day at the zoo was any indication. A man walking by with his kid tosses a neatly folded newspaper into the trashcan next to Dean, missing it. He keeps walking. Dean glances at the date on the paper and reads: _’January 13th, 2010’_ under the headline: “State Dept. checking reports of 3 U.S. deaths in Haiti.”

Dean sighs and wonders if the pandas are awake. Now those are cool animals, pandas, way better than polar bears. “I said: what the hell are we doin' here, Sammy? It's been about two weeks since the showdown. That’s two weeks we could’ve been chasing down strays and sending them back to the Hell – or Heaven. The world's still standin', as far as I can tell, and we're at the zoo?” Dean gestures expansively, looks away, his jaw a hard line. “There's gotta be _somethin'_ still out there.”

 _For us._ He doesn't say it, doesn't need to, they both know. They both hope it’s true. What are the Winchesters without hunting, after all?

“Dean,” says Castiel, appearing at his side suddenly, so close his shoulder is touching his. “I think we should go see the pandas now.” He says it sagely, as if he's given it due consideration and has weighed out the pros and cons.

For the first time that day, Dean manages a smile.


	4. Chapter 4

** Shop of Madame Mustache, Tombstone: The Town to Tough to Die, Tombstone, AZ – 11:00 AM, Mountain Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 1,499_

  
“Come on Sam, try on the slinky red one.” Dean grins at his brother, smirking as he tips his black cowboy hat at him. “It'll look good on ya, little lady.”

Sam grits his teeth and eyes the costumes lining the racks of Madame Mustache dubiously. He reaches out to touch a peacock green feather hanging off of one of the dresses and wrinkles his nose. “First of all,” he says, “no. Second of all, _hell_ no.”

“I doubt there is a costume in here big enough for Sam to wear,” pipes in Cas from across the room, loudly. They both look up to see him wearing a white 10-gallon hat that would have made John Wayne envious. Sam laughs as Dean snickers, and Cas scrunches up his features in confusion, his false mustache and cork-burnt beard stretching across his face comically.

Dean suddenly stops when Cas' brow begins to furrow slightly. He punches Sam in the arm, trying not to look too perturbed. “This was your stupid idea, Sammy, now play along.”

Sam throws up his arms in exasperation. “Nothing in here is going to fit me, Dean. Let's just go.”

Dean looks about to protest, but Cas chimes in again. “Perhaps it is for the best, Dean,” he says in a somber tone. “Your brother is very fat.”

The grin that suddenly splits Dean's face looks like it hurts him it's so wide. Giggles begin to seep out from between his teeth.

“Wait, Cas,” Sam protests, shock evident in his voice. “W-what did you just say?” Dean watches Sam struggle between Bitch Face Five and Bitch Face Six, as if he were deciding how much he should dial it up. “I'm not 'fat',” he huffs – actually huffs! “I'm just, well, large.”

“‘Large’ is to be more than average size, synonymous with fat,” replies Castiel matter-of-factly. He clicks the fake gun he's been given thoughtfully, oblivious to the sputter of indignation from Sam.

“Well, er, you know,” says Sam, momentarily sidelined by Castiel's practical explanation. “It's not the same thing,” he finishes inelegantly. He looks to Dean for validation, but Dean just holds up his hands.

“Whoa, keep me out of this,” he says around a grin. Sam settles on Bitch Face Six. Dean thinks Cas is lucky – Bitch Face Five is nasty business.

“Your brother, however, could fit into a dress easily,” continues Castiel as if there was no interruption. He comes to stand before Dean and scrutinizes him thoroughly, eyes tracing every dip and curve from head to toe. Dean looks stares back, though he’s slightly unnerved by the open, honest perusal. “ In fact,” says Cas, picking up the feathered emerald green dress that Sam had been looking at earlier, “this one would suit him quite nicely.” Dean begins to protest, but Cas is holding the material up to his face, the back of his hand flush to his cheek. “It would bring out the color of his eyes.”

Dean forgets what he was going to say as confusion, and something close to embarrassment, settles over him.

“I could likely fit into this one,” Castiel continues, unperturbed by Dean's expression. He holds up a matriarchal looking gown, floor-length and velvet, with an eyelet lace ruff. “But you, Sam,” serious, all business, “could not wear any of these.”

Bitch Face Six begins to slide into Bitch Face Five.


	5. Chapter 5

  
** Room 408, Inn of the Four Sons, Roswell, NM– 8:17 AM, Central Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 1,995_

  
Dean wakes up at 8:17 AM and immediately panics. His feet are on the floor, his gun in hand, before the sleep has fully cleared his eyes. When it does and he remembers where he is something drains from him so quickly that his legs grow weak beneath him. He sags back onto the bed with something that sounds like a strangled sob.

The nightmare is always the same: He is burning, his arms wrapped around something he knows he can't let go of. If he does, the world would fall away, _his_ world would fall away.

Dean always wakes up the same way, ever since the showdown in Four Points. The shitty thing is he can't remember exactly _what_ happened, and that seems like a big slap in the face. It was the fucking showdown of the goddamn Apocalypse for chrissake, and he can’t remember a single detail.

Except...he can, just one: the sound of an urgent voice, warped and muddy like it was layered atop several others, calling his name. _Dean, please wake up._

The memory of that voice is the only thing that can snap him out of his nightmare.

Dean glances at the clock on the nightstand. He stares at it for a full minute before he realizes, belatedly, that he has slept in. Nobody had woken him up like he'd asked… and that just irritates the piss out of him. Sam (he assumes it’s Sam because Castiel still hasn’t learned how to use the remote) left the television on the weather channel. Why that shit interests him, Dean will never understand. The forecaster’s voice is a garbled, low hum from the other side of the room. Dean glances at the TV and the smiling sun with tells him it’s going to be a nice sunny Sunday afternoon. He checks the ticker running at the bottom and sees that it’s January 24th – they’ve been on the road with Cas for two weeks now.

He staggers upright once again and stretches, joints creaking, spine popping like a row of caps from a cap gun. Shit, he's gotten older and never realized it. He goes straight to the restroom, takes a piss that feels like it lasts forever. He braces a hand on the wall and realizes that he's never had the time to acknowledge that he's growing older. Now, though, on this stupid road trip that Castiel insists they take, he's got nothing but buckets of hours and minutes to fill with such thoughts and speculations.

Dean hates time, he decides. It leaves him too much room to think, to wonder...to hope.

He washes up, cold water shocking his mind into full awareness, and decides it’s about time he gets some fucking answers.

  
 ** Parking Lot, Inn of the Four Sons, Roswell, NM - 8:25 AM, Central Standard Time **

  
Cas and Sam are nowhere to be found, which right away worries Dean. There’s a twinge in his stomach, an ulcer forming perhaps, which Dean thinks is just goddamn _dandy_ given that he managed to go to Hell and back without so much as a paper cut let alone a hole in his stomach. His worry continues to mount as he pulls on his jacket – he’s been wearing John’s lately, something just feels right about it – and heads out of his room.

The New Mexico air is warm and dry on his face – not yet hot, just the same as the air had been in Arizona. He knows he'll hate it by midday, but for now, it’s nice enough.

He makes his way over to the Impala, filthy with dust from their drive through the desert clime. Somebody’s scrawled ‘Wash Me’ on the windshield, to which Dean immediately takes offense. He looks around accusingly, as if the culprit might still be there, but the parking lot is empty save for a grackle that is staring at him expectantly.

Dean kicks some gravel toward the bird, which only causes it to hop back a few inches and resume staring. Dean ignores it, peering instead into the back window of the Impala, looking to see if Cas had retreated to the backseat to escape Sam’s snoring.

The first time he’d done it, Dean had charged out of the room in the middle of the night calling his name, frantic that something had snatched him from under their noses, or that he’d gone back to Heaven. That was his real fear – one he didn’t share with anyone else.

When he’d discovered Cas in the car, curled up like a kitten in the backseat, he’d felt immediately foolish… and _furious_. He’d woken him up, banging on the hood like a madman, ranting and yelling about stupid, inconsiderate angels. Cas had simply rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and explained that Sam’s, ‘grizzly bear snores’ had kept him awake so he’d retreated to Impala instead.

Thing is, Cas isn't in the backseat. It's empty, no angel in sight. He curls his hand into a fist as an irrational thought crosses his mind: Sam and Cas have gone off together, probably somewhere stupid like a stupid Alien Museum, and left him alone.

The thought makes Dean's stomach clench and anger ripple through him, though if he thinks about it too long the reasons for his anger become vague and confusing.

He chooses not to dwell any longer on it, instead whirls on his heel, jamming one hand into the pocket of his jeans to dig out his cell phone. He’s stormed a few feet away from the Impala, stabbing the first few digits of Sam’s number into keypad angrily, when he hears the low murmur of voices. He looks up… and that's when he sees them.

Sam and Castiel are sitting side by side at a picnic table in a small grassy square, maybe a little bigger than a walk-in closet, that’s been set aside by the motel as a designated “smoking” area. His brother and Cas aren't pushed right up next to each other – oddly, this relieves him – but Castiel is watching Sam very closely. Oddly, his feelings on that could _not_ be considered relief… not in the slightest. In fact, Dean found the whole scene goddamn _aggravating._

He walks towards them, intending to interrupt this little ‘moment’ and demand the answers he knows he's due, but he stops mid-step, faltering when he sees what they are actually doing.

Sam and Cas are eating oranges. And Sam is smiling; smiling in a way that Dean hasn't seen him smile in too fucking long. It's the way Sam used to smile, or at least close to it. The easy smile he used to see before Dean had been ripped apart by hellhounds and sent to the Pit.

Sam is showing Castiel how to peel and eat the orange fruit. Cas, with his usual somber manner, is peeling the skin of his orange off carefully, like it’s something too precious to just rip into. He gets all of the peel off and looks to Sam, his expression questioning and focused, intense – it makes Dean want to look away. Sam splits his orange open into two halves. Cas follows suit. Dean takes another step closer as Castiel shoves a whole half of an orange into his mouth.

Cas bites down; juices dribble down his chin, sticky and glistening in the sunlight. Dean expects him to spit out a mouthful of half-chewed fruit but is again stopped in his tracks when an expression of utter rapture and delight flashes across Castiel's features. Sam smiles, laughing now as he mimics Cas.

The sound is open and free in the morning air. It sounds like new beginnings.

Dean decides that he doesn't need his answers today and leaves his brother and Cas to their moment.

Later Castiel, hands smelling like oranges, hands Dean a small alien-shaped car freshener. Dean scoffs at it, but hangs it from the Impala's rearview mirror.


	6. Chapter 6

** A random stretch of Route 66, Catoosa, OK - 3:03PM, Central Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 2,285_

  
Sam insists they go see this gigantic blue whale that some guy built off of Route 66. Dean knows it’s a fucking tourist trap, but Sam needles him about it – well, subjects him to Bitch Face Four – until Dean relents and pulls off onto the shoulder of the road to check the goddamn map. Bitch Face Four is a powerful tool and Sam knows it.

He's sitting smug in the passenger seat as Dean looks over the map – they’d quickly discovered, after being navigated into Lubbock, Texas by Cas, that the angel had just about no sense of the cardinal directions – until Dean looks up at him.

“Chinese fire drill, Sammy. Switch with Cas,” he says with a jerk of his head towards the backseat.

“A Chinese fire drill is when you run around the car at a stop light,” Sam replies in what Dean likes to call his 'Stanford lawyer voice'.

“Oh okay,” Dean says with a smirk. “Did they teach you that in college?” he adds, because he knows it bothers Sam. Predictably, Sam stiffens and gives him a long-suffering look, which Dean suffers only because he's had years of practice.

“Shut up, Dean.”

“What d’they do in a Russian fire drill, huh?” Dean presses, goading his brother into an outburst, just because he can. Sam presses his teeth together firmly. A muscle in his jaw ticks. Dean grins wider.

“Seriously Dean: _shut up_.”

They've reverted to the banter of twelve year olds, but hey, Sam asked for it.

Cas suddenly speaks from the back seat, deadpan. “A Russian fire drill must involve ballet,” he says contemplatively, “it makes the most sense.”

The tension between Dean and Sam snaps and they dissolve into a fit of laughter that spills out of the open windows.

“Cas, seriously,” says Dean between snorts of laughter, “you're killing me.”

“That is not my intention,” replies Castiel, his expression concerned.

“Never mind,” he replies, smiling, “let's go see this giant blue whale that Sam's so interested in wasting money on.”

Dean pulls back onto the road, only half listening as Sam begins to rattle off a series of “fun” facts about the blue whale statue in an enthusiastic voice. _He's like an over-excited puppy_ Dean thinks and hides a smile as he glances into the rearview.

Cas catches his eye in the mirror. A corner of the angel's mouth twitches upwards. Dean blinks, and when he looks again, Castiel is looking out the window.


	7. Chapter 7

  
** The World's Largest Praying Hands, Tulsa, OK - 1:00AM, Central Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 2,601_

  
The monument of the Praying Hands is something that Castiel wants to see. There is something on his face when he suggests that they take a detour to see it that Dean just can't find it in himself to argue with. So they go.

It's dark out when they reach the monument, but in some ways it seems more appropriate this way. There's a sense of serenity about the whole site that Dean feels seep up through the soles of his feet from the ground itself. A feeling of welcome settles over him, as if he were being wrapped tight in his mother's arms.

It makes him want to fall to his knees and bow his head.

Dean sags back against the door of the Impala and watches as Castiel disappears into the darkness, heading straight towards the 60-foot tall monument. Sam looks at him, and Dean can see fear and peace war within his eyes. He stands, finding his strength, and reaches out to grip his brother's shoulder. “It's okay, Sammy,” he says.

Wetness suddenly trails down Sam's cheeks, but Dean doesn't make fun of him. Instead, he wanders away, leaving his brother alone with his thoughts.

  
 ** At the base of the World's Largest Praying Hands, Tulsa, OK - 1:15AM, Central Standard Time **

  
At the base of the praying hands statue, Castiel drops to his knees and bows his head. There's a certain holiness about the place that he feels deep in his vessel’s bones. The feeling reaches out and touches his Grace, cradling it gently. Something wells up in him; a feeling he can't understand, a feeling that makes his chest ache. He splays his hands on the ground, feeling dirt and grass between his fingers.

Vaguely, perhaps from a memory of Jimmy Novak’s, Castiel realizes that the feeling is loneliness.

“This place is something else, eh?” says a voice suddenly from behind him.

Castiel doesn't lift his head, only says, “Hello Gabriel.”

Gabriel sinks to his knees next to him and sits back on his haunches, looking up at the bronze monument. He whistles. “Funny that something so ostentatious should be a source of so much peace and inspiration,” he comments.

Castiel only replies, “What do you want, Gabriel?”

“I just want to help you, little brother,” says Gabriel with a smile. Castiel finally looks up and tilts his head to the side ever so slightly.

“I don't need your help,” he says, grimly, “I find your assistance is generally counterproductive.”

“Oh, are you talking about that incident with the game shows?” asks Gabriel with a smirk, “Sorry Cas – that is what they call you, right? Cas? I was misguided. I've reformed.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” says Castiel.

“Look, fine _bro_ ,” Gabriel replies with a roll of his eyes, “don't forgive me for what happened. I can understand. I really do just want to help you though. Our Father sent you on a task, right?”

Castiel stiffens and looks away from the other angel. “How did you know that?” he asks tightly.

“Let's just say a little birdie told me,” says Gabriel smugly. At Castiel's sharp look, he holds up his hands defensively. “Okay, fine. I lived as the Trickster for a long time. I've got my ways.” He taps his temple and leans towards Castiel and mock-whispers, “Call it intuition.”

“And what does this 'intuition' tell you?” says Castiel.

“It tells me you aren't seeing the whole picture.”

Now Castiel is curious. “How so?”

“Look, dear ol’ dad told you to help the Winchesters learn to live, _really_ live, free of hunting or ghosts or all those nasty things that they've known their whole lives, right? But you're missing the point.”

Castiel waits for Gabriel to elucidate, but he only whistles a tune Cas doesn’t recognize and peers up at the monument. Sighing, he gives in and asks, “What might that be, Gabriel?”

Gabriel gives him an indulgent smile that Castiel supposes might be effective with children and says, “Do you remember that whole ‘Egg Donor Mix-up’ storyline from Dr. Sexy, M.D.?”

Castiel is thrown off. He looks at his brother in puzzlement but replies, “Nurse Bridget mislabeled the sperm samples and got her ex-husband’s wife impregnated with another man’s child.” Castiel’s perplexed expression deepens; he looks past Gabriel, at a point somewhere beyond his shoulder, momentarily lost I thought. “I do not understand why a health care professional would label the samples ‘K. Smith’ and not use a first name. It is quite illogical.”

Gabriel erupts into laughter and looks exceedingly pleased with himself. “I _knew_ Dean-o was making you watch that! Zachariah owes me a cheesecake now.” Gabriel looks up at the night-darkened sky in the general direction of Heaven with a smug expression. “Ya hear that, Zach? You owe me a cheesecake!”

Castiel frowns and feels a flash of annoyance sift through him. “What does Dr. Sexy, M.D. have to do with helping the Winchesters?”

“Nothing, actually,” answers Gabriel distractedly. “I just wanted to get you to admit you watch Dr. Sexy, M.D.” He’s still looking up at the night sky and begins to mutter about the pros and cons of different kinds of cheesecake under his breath. Castiel decides he’s had enough and turns to go. “Wait,” says Gabriel, suddenly. “Just _think_ about it, Cas.” He taps his temple again.

Castiel is confused, and it shows, but he mulls the question over thoroughly nevertheless. “Dean…wants to get pregnant?” he finally says. It’s all he can come up with. Well that or Dean doesn’t label his ‘samples’ correctly…Entirely possible as well as disturbing.

Gabriel gives him a look to rival what Castiel has come to know as Sam’s ‘Bitch Face Number Three’. He wonders if Gabriel learned his from Sam.

“No, you dolt,” says Gabriel a bit peevishly, “Dean doesn’t want to get pregnant. _You_ put him back together – unless you included a womb in the male anatomy, it’s not happening.” He sighs in the patient way that one sighs when they're speaking to someone particularly slow. “Look, forget I said anything about that stupid show.” A gleam enters his eye that immediately makes Castiel wary. “That _is_ a great idea, though,” muses Gabriel with a fiendish grin. “Good one, Cas – you’re cleverer than I thought you were. Still thick-headed most of the time, but occasionally clever.”

“What is your point, Gabriel?” Castiel finally demands, turning full to stare his brother square in the eye.

“Our Father wants _you_ to be happy too,” Gabriel says, finally yielding.

“My happiness is of no consequence,” says Castiel immediately, rising to his feet. “The only thing that matters is helping Dean and Sam Winchester find peace. They deserve it after all that they have been through.”

Gabriel rises too and shakes his head sadly. “You're wrong, little brother. Your happiness is right in front of you, but you're too blind to see it.”

Castiel's expression turns questioning, “I do not understand.”

Gabriel rests his hand on his younger brother's shoulder and looks sincere. “Find your own peace, Cas, wherever you can.”

“Cas!”

Both angels turn as Dean materializes out of the gloom. Gabriel gives Castiel a meaningful look and disappears with the sound of rushing wings.

“What'd he want?” asks Dean as he approaches. He looks wary and almost angry. Castiel shakes his head, his brow creasing in confusion.

“My brother,” he begins haltingly, as if he were weighing the consequence of every word, “told me to find peace.” He takes a few steps away from the monument, looking up at the stars as though they might hold all the answers.

Dean pauses for a moment to take in Castiel’s words, before following. He steps up beside Cas once more and looks at him, waiting.

Finally Cas looks over at Dean, and is almost – and yet not at all – surprised to see him looking back. He reads concern and skepticism carved into the shadowed lines of Dean’s face, and realizes he's never really _looked_ at the man. Even in the half-light there is softness to him that he usually tries to hide behind swagger and braggadocio. _He's beautiful._

Castiel reaches out towards Dean, and for once Dean lets him. He slips his hand past the collar of Dean’s jacket and rests it on the curve of his shoulder and neck. Dean’s skin is warm beneath his palm. His thumb brushes Dean's jugular and he can feel the man's heartbeat skip and quicken under the skin.

“Cas,” says Dean, his voice a whisper in the darkness. He leans forward into the touch—

“Hey guys!” Sam's voice breaks through the relative silence and shatters the moment. Dean jerks away and turns from him towards the sound of his brother’s voice. Castiel lets his hand fall to his side, suddenly feeling colder. He misses the warmth of Dean's skin beneath his fingers.

“Guys, we should go,” says Sam as he comes jogging up. His eyes are shiny in the gloom. “Looks like there's some people coming, teenagers by the sound of it.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Dean. His voice sounds a little ragged, but Castiel can't see the expression on his face. “Let's get out of here.”

Castiel watches them head back to the car for a moment then glances up at the monument one last time before following.


	8. Chapter 8

** City Park, Mecca of Albino Squirrels, Olney, IL – 7:25 PM, Central Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 3,120_

  
“What do you mean you took a wrong turn, Sam?” Dean says, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he glances at the wooden sign that says ‘Olney City Park’, complete with a cartoon depiction of two perfectly white squirrels looking bushy-eyed and happy.

Sam, who is sitting across from him, sighs and looks again at the map. “Look, I dunno, Dean,” he says spreading his large hands helplessly, “I told you, I followed the signs.”

“Well, what I don't understand,” says Dean, snagging the map from his brother, “is how you can follow the signs and still end up in butt-fucking Illinois!” It’s been at least a week since the stop in Tulsa – which meant, by Dean’s guess, they’d now slipped into February. Which meant they’d been on the road almost a month now. At this rate, they wouldn’t reach Maine until March!

“Dean, “butt-fucking” is hardly an appropriate description for a state,” says Castiel distractedly. He's feeding parts of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich to a small army of snow-white squirrels that are hanging around their picnic table. Dean finds it disconcerting, but Sam is now giving the squirrels that look that makes Dean suspect he's thinking about writing a book report on them.

“You sure you read the signs correctly?” he asks.

“I can read, Dean,” says Sam with a quick flash of annoyance. “Maybe the map is wrong.”

“Yeah, the map is wrong,” replies Dean, sarcasm coating his words. Sam frowns, almost pouting, and Dean decides to change the subject. At least they can refuel in Olney, weird as this little town is.

“These squirrels are very happy,” says Castiel, rubbing one of the little albino critters beneath its furry chin. “The people of this town are very good to them.” He looks almost wistful.

“I wonder why they all gather here,” says Sam, tossing a bit of fruit salad to the group of white animals.

“They probably put out an ad in the squirrel paper,” says Dean, grudgingly giving up a couple of potato chips to a pair of squirrels that were staring at him with their weird red eyes.

“I do not think squirrels can read,” Castiel says, though he seems to be giving the thought due consideration. “If they could, I imagine their papers would be very tiny.” He sounds confident now, as if the statement makes perfect sense.

“You think they'd even be able to read English?” asks Sam suddenly. He looks disappointed that none of the squirrels want his fruit salad.

“Naw, they'd read Kryptonian,” says Dean with an eye roll. He has to smile at Castiel's suddenly perplexed expression.

“Do you speak Kryptonian?” he asks Dean. His gaze is heavy on Dean's face. It makes him want to blush. He recalls the feeling of the angel's hand on his skin, vividly.

“Nope, but my good friend Clark Kent does,” he says, grinning. Sam shoots him a look.

“I would like to meet this Clark Kent sometime,” says Cas gravely. “Especially if he is a good friend of yours, Dean.”

Dean's about to reply, elaborate, when Sam cuts in. “He's a fictional character, Cas,” he says. “And it’s ‘Kryptonese’ not Kryptonian - if you’re speaking it, anyway.”

“Okay then Nerd Alert,” cracks Dean, flashing his teeth at the Bitch Face Sam immediately pulls. He looks at Castiel. “Don’t believe him, Cas. Sammy’s pullin’ your leg.”

Cas looks down. “No, he is not.”

Dean smiles wryly as Cas continues to examine his leg.


	9. Chapter 9

  
** Wildwood Theme Suites, Florence, KY – 10:00 PM, Eastern Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 3.351_

  
It's late when they pull into the parking lot of the Wildwood Theme Suites. Sam’s picked this place to stay, says it’s something he read about as a kid and always wanted to go. Dean can hardly deny the excited look on his brother’s face, so he sucks it up and doesn't think about what the price tag on one of those suites will be.

Of course, it all goes to pieces at the reception desk.

“Okay,” says Dean slowly, weariness fully pushed aside in favor of irritation, “so you’re tellin’ me in this whole freakin’ place you’ve only got _one_ suite available?”

“Yes sir,” says the ginger-haired kid at reception with a sunny smile. He doesn’t offer anything further. He just looks at Dean and Sam looming behind him, before letting his gaze wander over to Castiel who is tapping the huge fish tank in the reception area with his index finger. “Sir,” the kid – Jarold, according to his nametag – pipes up, “please don’t disturb the fish.” He points to a large sign directly over Castiel’s head, which advises guests to leave the fish the hell alone.

Castiel steps back and folds his hands behind his back, though Dean can tell that the angel just wants to go and press his face against the glass.

“Which suite is it?” Dean asks, turning back to Jarold.

Jarold types something into the computer and absent-mindedly pops a few M&M’s into his mouth. He munches for a few seconds before answering Dean. “Looks like we’ve only go the Cupid Suite available, sir.”

“The Cupid Suite,” Dean repeats, his mind going dull with a mix of shock and frustration.

“Right, the Cupid Suite,” Jarold affirms. He adds, “It has a large Jacuzzi shaped like a heart – it’s very popular with our honeymooners.”

The dullness is swept away from Dean’s brain, immediately. “Do we look like _honeymooners_ to you?” he practically barks. He suddenly and very badly wants this conversation to be over. He glances towards Sam, who isn’t looking at him but is instead giving Jarold a mistrustful once-over. Dean presses his lips together into a thin line.

Jarold only shrugs, his light green eyes glinting in a way that say he doesn’t pass judgment. He picks a few more M&M’s out of the candy dish on the counter and chews thoroughly, before replying. “Look, I can give you the room for the price of one of our regular rooms because of the inconvenience.” When Dean remains silent, he leans forward conspiratorially. “It’s got Pay Per View, ya? If you, say, order a few skin flicks? Maybe Brokeback Mountain or something? I won’t charge ya.” Jarold winks and Dean really has to take a moment to stop from reaching across the counter and throttling the kid.

“Fine.” He pushes the word through his teeth so that it’s little more than a grunt. Jarold beams at him, takes his credit card, and swipes it. A red brow snaps up at the name imprinted on the card “Alvin C. Munk” but he just hands Dean his card back along with the keycard to the room, in a fancy little envelope along with some coupons for a continental breakfast in the morning.

“I’ll have one cot brought up shortly for you, sir,” Jarold assures with another sunshine smile. Dean just throws him a sardonic glare and pulls Cas away from the fish tank to go and look for the room.

He doesn’t see Sam pause and narrow his eyes as Jarold absently shoves another handful of M&M’s into his mouth.

  
 ** The Cupid Suite, Wildwood Theme Suites, Florence, KY – 10:15 PM, Eastern Standard Time **

  
Dean drops the keycard into the door of the Cupid Suite slowly, as if whatever was on the other side might leap out and maul him. The light on the lock flashes green. Dean pushes down the handle, lets the door swing open, and immediately wants to run away.

The room is a travesty in pinks and red, complete with decal hearts plastered to the walls.

“No fucking way,” he blurts. He feels someone crowd him from behind and takes a step into the room as Castiel pushes past him. Dean reluctantly follows him into the room, trying to ignore the glaring intimacy the whole décor of the room implies.

“I like this bed,” Castiel states. “It looks soft.” He points to the king-sized bed in the middle of the room with a heart-shaped headboard. Cas sits stiffly on the edge of the mattress and then lies down, equally as stiff. “It _is_ very soft,” he confirms.

Dean stares at the prone angel for a moment, ugly trench coat – _can’t get him to get rid of the damn thing_ – fanned out on the deep red covers beneath him. Sam clears his throat from the doorway, and when Dean turns to look at him his brother’s eyes are sharp with suspicion.

“What?” asks Dean in a surly tone, a slow flush he can’t explain creeping up the back of his neck.

“Um… nothing,” replies Sam, shifting his eyes away from Dean. “I just want to go check something at reception, okay? Make sure that the cot they bring is big enough for me.”

“Whoa, wait, what makes you think that I’m sharin’ the bed with Cas?” exclaims Dean before he can stop himself. Sam however, is already gone, his stupidly long legs carrying him away from the room quickly. Dean curses.

“I would not mind sharing a bed with you,” says Castiel from directly behind him.

Dean jumps and whirls around, coming face to face with Cas who is, once again, too far into his personal space. “What’ve I told you about that?” he snarls, though even he can tell the words lacked bite. He places his hands on Cas’ shoulders and manages to keep a straight face as he feels the unnatural amount of heat radiating up from the angel’s body. It seeps through the fibers of Cas’ clothing and up through his palms, spreading warmth throughout his body.

Dean is suddenly struck with the question of what Cas’ skin might feel like bared beneath his hands.

He lets go of Castiel abruptly and slams the door shut with his foot. “Fuck this,” he mutters, brushing past Castiel, shrugging out of his coat, and heading straight to the mini bar, “I’m gonna need a drink to survive this.”

Castiel looms behind him, carefully removing his battered coat as Dean rummages through the stocked mini-fridge. He hands Cas a small bottle of vodka and takes the rest for himself: a mix of whiskey, bourbon, and some other shit he didn’t really look at. Dean knows he’s going to have a wicked headache in the morning – mixing alcohol was never really his thing – but he’ll take his punishment if it helps him deal with this room.

“I’m goin’ for a soak,” Dean announces as he stands up again. He looks pointedly at Castiel. “Don’t feel the need to follow me.”

  
***

  
Castiel feels the need to follow him.

Dean is sitting in the ridiculous heart-shaped Jacuzzi, minding his own and settling into his buzz, when he feels the water rise up around his chest more as another body joins him. He cracks open an eye to glare at Cas but, before his glare can reach full power, he bursts into a fit of laughter that hurts his ribs.

Cas is sitting in the tub with him, wearing his tie, boxer shorts, and socks – nothing else.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, trying to catch his breath. He looks Cas over again and tips the small bottle of whiskey he’s been saving into his mouth, finishing it with a short swallow. “I’d probably be pissed right now, but you look absolutely _ridiculous.”_ When Castiel doesn’t reply immediately, Dean, fueled by the warmth of liquor in his veins, leans forward and snags Cas’ tie in a tight grip. “C’mere,” he mumbles.

Dean makes short work of the knot and tosses the tie onto the floor by the tub. He glances up and realizes he’s practically nose-to-nose with Castiel who, though still wearing a somber expression, is rather flushed. Dean is suddenly very aware that he is naked in the tub with the angel.

“Shit,” he breathes. Cas is looking into his eyes now. They’re so close that Dean can see Castiel’s pupils dilate and expand. His breath catches in the back of his throat.

“Dean,” says Castiel, low, serious. “Why are you afraid?”

Dean doesn’t know why he is. All he knows is that this is quickly turning into a fucking intimate moment, and it’s goddamn _frightening_.

Castiel places his hand on Dean’s shoulder over the handprint he’d left there. The stitches that hold Dean together begin to pull apart as Cas runs his palm down the length of Dean’s arm, slowly and deliberately. It’s an experimental touch, curiosity etched into the tips of Castiel’s fingers as he watches his own hand trail back up Dean’s bicep and wander over to the mark he left burned into the man’s skin. “You are very tense,” he says.

Dean wants to reply that his tension is because of _him_.

The words die on his lips, however, when Castiel presses his fingers into the tight muscle of Dean’s chest below his shoulders and pushes. Dean slides back as Castiel presses forward, kneading the muscles outwards with the heels of his hands, forcing the tension from his body. It hurts; there’s nothing gentle about Castiel’s hands as they push deeply into the sore muscles of Dean’s chest and shoulders.

But it feels damn good when something finally rolls and loosens and the tension melts away from him like a riptide.

Dean relaxes, visibly sagging in the Jacuzzi as Castiel’s wet hands slide across his chest and back over his shoulders to work the muscles of his back and neck. His fingers are strong, firm, _masculine_. He’s thrust up against Dean with no sense of space or propriety, chest-to-chest; Dean can feel the thump of his heart with every breath. His own heart jackhammers in his chest and it suddenly feels like Castiel's hands are massaging him from inside his skin; hot, painful, and oh-so- _good_.

Suddenly it's all too much: this moment, this closeness, the implication that's written beneath the pressure of Castiel's hands. He snakes a hand around the angel’s neck, steadying himself, and lets his breath roll over Castiel's shoulder, harsh and loud. A sound like a strangled whine, needy and unhinged struggles to escape his throat. Castiel doesn't stop massaging his back but lets his lips brush the underside of Dean's jaw, so light that Dean knows he must have imagined it. He whispers, “It’s okay, Dean. Let me take care of you.”

A noise tears from Dean then. It's wretched with empty need and unfocused want, and Dean doesn't want to believe that it came from him. Cas' only reply is to whisper, “Shhh.”

There's a feeling of wrenching reality then and Dean abruptly finds himself facedown on the bed, the soft covers sticking to his wet skin. He panics for an instant before he feels Castiel settle his weight onto the backs of his thighs. Then those hands are on his back again, pushing him down, pressing in, curving around his ribs as if he were holding Dean together. Dean sighs, comforted by the heft and solidness of Cas atop him.

He feels Cas lean forward, his belly resting along the curve of his back, as he digs his fingers beneath his shoulder blades and forces away the pressure that has built up. Dean feels like he's sinking down into the mattress, through the floor and away. It feels damn good and he realizes that he hasn't been this relaxed in _years_.

He drifts off, into more of a coma than sleep, letting himself fall off the edge of consciousness. As each knot relents beneath the touch of Cas' strong fingers, he feels Castiel's lips on the nape of his neck, moving as if he were whispering silently against his skin. “That feels nice,” Dean mumbles, tongue loose, slack with relaxation.

He feels Castiel's lips curve into a smile.


	10. Chapter 10

** Denny's Beer Barrel Pub, Home of the World's Largest Burgers, Clearfield , PA – 2:00PM, Eastern Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 3,769_

  
Dean's in motherfucking burger _heaven_ and he's been telling everyone in earshot that for the past 10 minutes. Why shouldn't he? He's sitting in a corner booth at and looking at the Beer Barrel Belly Buster, a 15-pound monstrosity – plus 5 pounds of toppings – that's bigger than his and Sam's heads combined, and Sam's got a huge head. Castiel seems curious about it, poking his finger into the over-sized patties, while Sam is eying it and looking faintly sick. Dean however, is sitting with a huge shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

He's ravenous and wastes no time in slicing off a piece of the burger that's bigger than his plate. Castiel takes a smaller slice but, after his first bite, fills his plate to capacity with burger goodness. Dean's reminded of the incident with Famine and wonders if Jimmy Novak's taste for red meat has stayed with Castiel after all.

Sam doesn't partake. Instead, he sits back in his seat and fixes Dean with an almost accusatory glare over the top of the newspaper he’s pretending to read. February 9th – the Wildwood Inn seems like eons ago, though if Dean closes his eyes he can still feel Castiel’s hands pushing into his body, fingers spread across his skin, palms too hot as they pressed down against his muscles. Sam’s gaze makes him both irritated and nervous, especially since he’s fairly certain Sam knows that _something_ went on in that hotel room. He bites into a portion of his burger and looks back at his brother, daring him to voice what's on his mind. Typical Sam, he folds the paper and launches right into it.

“Look, I think we should all talk,” he begins, shifting his gaze towards Castiel who returns it unblinkingly.

“About what?” asks Castiel around a mouthful of food. “Is it about the other night? Was Gabriel nice to you when you went back to see him?”

Sam’s expression is more troubled than surprised and it sets alarm bells blaring in Dean’s head. “Gabriel was at the hotel?” he manages to blurt around a mouthful of half-chewed food.

“Yes,” Cas replies, taking a long pull from his soda. “He was the receptionist at the front desk.”

“That son of a bitch.” Dean stabs angrily at pickle. “I knew something was off with that guy.”

“How'd you know?” Sam asks sharply. Followed immediately by, “And why didn't you say anything?”

Castiel only shrugs, indifferent. “I felt him as soon as we walked into the hotel,” he says, “but I felt no malice from him and therefore deemed it unnecessary to say anything.” Cas pins Sam with a thoughtful stare and quietly asks, “Why did you go back, Sam? What business did you have with Gabriel?”

Sam looks uncomfortable and he fidgets in his seat. Dean watches him closely, and notices the immediate tautness of his shoulders. “I,” says Sam, looking down at his hands, “I wanted to some answers about what happened at Four Points.” He looks up, jaw line hard. “I got some of them.”

“Well, share with the class, Sammy!” Dean exclaims, the food that had tasted so good moments earlier turning to sawdust in his mouth. “I, for one, can't remember a damn thing.” He turns to Cas and catches the full force of the angel's intense stare. He feels Castiel's weight on the back of his thighs, the pressure of his hands on his back, the feel of his lips on his skin. He holds firm. “And I want to know what this whole trip is _really_ about, Cas.”

Cas doesn't fidget like Sam. He stays very still instead, almost unnaturally so, though he turns his eyes away from Dean very carefully and looks to Sam instead. “Perhaps your brother should tell us what Gabriel revealed to him, first,” he says.

“Fine,” says Sam, sitting up a little straighter before leaning forward, “I'll begin.” He takes a deep breath as if to steady himself, gathering his thoughts. “Gabriel told me that Lucifer… that I… well, that I said yes.”

Dean isn't surprised but part of him still wants to scream at his brother, at Cas, at Lucifer, at God… at everything else for that matter. Castiel nods, though there's a tightness to his eyes that makes Dean think that he's reliving the moment. “That is correct,” Cas says.

Sam continues. “He told me that the angels and demons waged war without their vessels, but that Lucifer's presence was too vast to remain unconstrained for any length of time. It's why he needed me – to channel his power, focus his energy.” Sam looks away now, and he stutters over the next part, his voice thick with emotion. “Gabriel also told me that I buried Dean in Hellfire and rubble.”

Castiel flinches next to him. Dean drops his fork, anger flowing through his system like adrenaline. His hands clench into fists. “Look Sammy, it wasn't you. It was Lucifer. This whole thing was fucked up and we should never have been involved.” He cuts his eyes to Cas, who is sitting stiffly at his side and not looking at either of them. “Your turn,” he growls. He doesn't know if he wants to hear what Cas has to say, but he knows he needs to hear it, regardless.

“You were broken Dean,” says Cas, his voice oddly constricted, “I searched for you while my brothers and sisters battled around me. I wanted to join them, but I couldn't – not while you were hurt and lost in the destruction.”

Dean can't find it in him to thank Cas. Instead he gives a curt jerk of his head: acknowledgment, nothing more. His chest is suddenly too tight to contain his heart, which pounds fast and furious against his ribs. He wants to hit Cas. He wants to kiss him. He wants to throw him against something and rail and rage until his voice is hoarse. All he says, however, is, “What happened after that?”

“I found you and pulled you from the rubble,” Castiel resumes, his tone now brushed with something that sounds like fear, “and you were unconscious, nearly dead. I--” His voice catches and Sam looks quickly at him, then at Dean, then away. “I,” continues Castiel, “held you and urged you to wake up.”

Dean recalls his recurring dream, recalls the voice that pleads with him, pulls him from the grasp of his nightmare. He's always known it was Cas. He just hasn’t wanted to admit it. Admitting it would be admitting that Castiel is the one he reached out for in his moment of distress. Dean looks away.

“You opened your eyes, Dean.” _I need you._ “And in that moment, you pushed yourself from me and crawled to your brother. Through Hellfire, barely alive, you went to Sam.”

There are tears shining in Sam's eyes, regretful; Dean doesn't want his brother's regret or tears. His jaw clenches so tightly his teeth hurt. “Dean,” begins Sam, but Dean shakes his head violently. _Not now, I can't do it right now._

“You wrapped your arms around your brother's legs, Dean, and you held onto him even though the Hellfire was burning you alive.” Castiel's voice is different, awed, and Dean looks up at him to see the angel staring at him as if he were something special. The faith in Cas' gaze makes something _ache_ inside of Dean. He knows what Castiel is going to say next. He needs to hear it. “Then I heard a voice and it's something I can't describe. It was the voice of my father. It spoke from within me, as if it had always been there and I'd been too deaf to hear it.”

Dean trembles, digging his fingers into his thighs to hold himself together. _Too much, too much, too much._ “Sam pushed Lucifer from him and fell to the ground and embraced you. Together you burned.” Castiel doesn't drop his gaze, looks deep into Dean's eyes, right to his soul. “My father saved you both.”

“Cas,” says Sam, his voice shaky, “why did God save us?”

“I do not know, Sam,” replies Castiel with a shake of his head, “but he pulled us all from the fray. After that, I do not know what happened – I've been cut off from much of Heaven, ever since.”

Dean stands abruptly, nearly tipping over his chair in his haste. He needs to go outside, needs some fresh air. He leaves the table, his appetite completely gone, and shoves open the doors to the outside. He finds his way to the Impala, which is parked in near the end of the lot, and leans against the hood. He wants to scream at the sky.

What he does, however, is sink to his knees on the pavement and press his hands to his face. “Thank you,” he whispers against his palms, “thank you.”


	11. Chapter 11

** The Boardwalk, Wildwood , NJ – 11:00 PM, Eastern Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 4,091_

  
The Jersey shore boardwalk is a sight to be seen, like a giant carnival with booze and alcohol. Sam and Dean are standing at a table on the patio of Martell’s Tiki Bar, sharing a beer and some uncomfortable silence. Castiel is some feet away, ensnared by one of those cheap, rigged games where you have to throw an oversized ball into an undersized hole. Dean sighs and takes a swig of his beer. “Spit it out, Sam, we've gotta talk eventually.”

“I know,” Sam says, turning his back on Cas (who seemed determined to win something specific) and folds his arms across his chest. “It's just... I'm not sure how to feel about this whole thing. I mean, Cas told us what happened, but he hasn't told us why we've been on this trip. I find it hard to believe that God told him to go to Maine to see some chocolate moose.” He lets his head fall backwards, looking at the sky above without really taking anything in.

Dean chuckles. The sound is without humor. “I don't know, Sammy. I'm just trying to be grateful that we got a second shot at things, y'know?” He glances at his brother, nudges him, tries to smile. “Not sayin' this has all been fun, but it's been kinda nice to not have something trying to kill us everywhere we go.”

“You were the one who was chomping at the bit to get back on the horse and clean house!” says Sam, with mild exasperation. “Now you're okay with it?”

Dean shrugs, realizing that he actually is. He takes a smaller sip of beer and glances towards Castiel (who has won a giant stuffed panda, much to the delight of the people crowded around him). “I'm just thinking that we shouldn't blow our chances to have a little fun now and then, Sam.”

“What changed?” Sam asks curiously, draining his bottle of beer and setting it down on the table between them.

Dean watches as Castiel approaches them with the enormous panda doll in his arms, looking pleased with himself. Dean smiles. Sam notices and looks between his brother and the angel, a thoughtful crease forming between his eyes. He observes the manner in which Castiel hands Dean the panda – somber, hedged with something almost intimate – catches the way their hands brush and linger in the exchange.

Sam feels a bit like a third wheel, though the feeling vanishes the moment Cas hands him a small banana-shaped toy with google eyes and a goofy smile stitched onto it. He smiles and says, “Thanks Cas.” He suggests that Cas and Dean go ride the Ferris Wheel while he gets himself something to eat at one of the boardwalk’s restaurants.

“You sure, Sammy?” Dean asks, but he's already shoving the giant panda at him. Sam wonders if his brother knows the level of excitement that's brimming in his eyes as he looks back at Cas.

“Yeah,” says Sam, laughing uncomfortably, “no problem.” He watches Dean and Sam walk off together, so close that their fingers occasionally graze, and he wonders how he's missed it all this time.

  
 ** Near the Ferris Wheel, The Boardwalk, Wildwood , NJ – 11:33 PM, Eastern Standard Time **

  
Partway to the Ferris Wheel, Castiel asks Dean if they could try some cotton candy and Dean indulges his request. He's fascinated by the way the vendor spins the candy on the stick and takes the candy with a slight frown as Dean pays for it.

Dean turns back to Cas, who is staring at the cotton candy with a deep crease formed in his brow.

“Cas, you gonna eat that or make out with it?” says Dean with a bit of a grin.

“I'm not sure this is food, Dean,” says Castiel in reply, his frown deepening.

“You're the one who wanted to try it. Trust me, it's food – kids love that shit.”

Castiel touches the pink fluff with his fingertips, pulling a small piece away. He places the candy in his mouth, letting it melt on his tongue, and Dean watches in amusement as Cas' eyes widen. “It's...sweet,” he says in wonderment. “Like sweet clouds.”

“Sweet clouds,” Dean repeats slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Sure. Whatever you say.” He leans forward and snags a small bite, the sugar sticky as it melts against his lips. He pulls back to see Cas staring at his mouth with embarrassing intensity. Dean feels the weight of Castiel's gaze, is reminded of the way Cas looked at him in the jacuzzi. He drowns beneath it.

“What?” he snaps, irritation a comfortable fallback. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies. He reaches out towards Dean and swipes his bottom lip with the tip of his finger before Dean can stop him. When he pulls it back, his finger is pink and tacky with melted sugar. Dean can't stop himself from staring as Cas draws the tip of his finger into his mouth with a thoughtful sucking noise.

Dean's throat is suddenly dry. He tries to swallow as Castiel lifts his eyes to his own, fixing him with a piercing stare. Castiel’s eyes are dilated, black crowding out blue. “It tastes different off of your lips,” he says, “better somehow.” Castiel leans forward, and Dean wants to tilt away but something makes him stay rooted to the spot as Cas looms closer. He's bewildered as his eyes drift closed when Cas parts his lips and brushes the tip of his tongue along the inside of his mouth. Dean automatically leans in, pressing his mouth to Castiel's, deepening the contact. He groans as Cas’ tongue slips against his, a brief greeting.

Dean's eyes snap open as Cas is suddenly gone and watches dumfounded as he orders another cotton candy. He returns to Dean immediately and thrusts the sugary treat at him. “Here,” says Cas in a rough voice, “have more.”


	12. Chapter 12

  
** Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast, Fall River, MA – 7:00 AM, Eastern Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 4,442_

  
Dean is tucking into a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, greasy bacon, and sausage, when Sam blurts, “Are you sleeping with Cas?”

Dean drops his fork and chokes on his sausage link, which prompts Sam to come around the table and pound on his back. He'll probably have a bruise or two later, but Dean can't care as he’s once again able to breathe at least somewhat. He coughs and sputters a moment longer before managing to spit out a shocked, “WHAT?”

Sam sits back down and treats him to Bitch Face Two, which generally implies that Dean can't figure out how to button up his shirt correctly. “You know what I'm talking about, Dean, don't play dumb. I, um, _saw_ you two at the Boardwalk.”

Dean's been trying not to think about the way Castiel's mouth fit against his own three nights ago. He's apparently failed; with Sam's words, it's suddenly all he can think about. He actually fucking blushes and looks away like a shy girl – for whatever reason he can't bring himself to grin and make some sort of lewd remark, not about this. He can't even bring himself to call it a kiss. “Look Sam,” he begins, but trails off as he realizes he has no clue how to continue. Then: “Fuck it.” Full disclosure it is... if he can just figure out what that is. “Look, I don't know what's goin' on with Cas, Sammy. I really don't. It's goddamn freaky, and scary, and... I mean... he's a _dude_ for chrissake!” Dean looks at his hands, trying to sort out his feelings. How can he make clear to Sam something he doesn’t even understand? Frustrated, he sits back. “All I know is that this, this...whatever, is something… It's...”

Unnoticed as he searches for the right words to explain the inexplicable, a smile tugs at corners of Dean’s mouth, growing slightly with each subsequent thought of the angel. Sam notices, but isn't quite sure what to make of it and so keeps his silence, waiting for his brother to come to his own conclusions in his own time.

“It’s something different, yeah… but something good, Sammy," Dean continues, looking up earnestly, pleadingly, at his brother. Meeting only a guarded and undemonstrative gaze, he flinches. “Fuck,” he looks down and away, “I can't… I don’t…” he trails off, feeling slightly lost.

“Do you love him?” Sam asks, his voice odd. It's more accepting than anything, and it surprises Dean.

“No,” Dean says swiftly, eyes darting to Sam’s then away as he continues, a bit more reluctantly, “not… not right now.”

That seems to be good enough for Sam, who pushes away from the table and rises, unfolding himself from the chair. “Fair enough, Dean. I’m, y’know, happy for you.” He looks awkward saying it, though Dean can hear the sincerity in his voice. He's relieved; he never realized how much of his acceptance of what was happening with Cas hinged on Sam's approval.

“Thanks, Sam.”

  
 ** The Death Bed, Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast, Fall River, MA – 8:00 AM, Eastern Standard Time **

  
Sam finds Castiel lying on the carpeted floor next to what is known as the “Death Bed”, where Lizzie Borden murdered her parents with a hatchet in 1892. The angel is sprawled out on his back, face turned towards the ceiling, his eyes closed as if in meditation. Before Sam's taken a step into the room, Castiel says, “Hello Sam.”

Sam pauses on the threshold of the room and feels a shiver run through him. This house has memories, bad ones, though the spirits of Lizzie Borden’s parents seem to have passed on long ago. He steps into the room and takes a seat by Castiel on the floor, unwilling to sit on the bed. “I was hoping to speak with you, Cas,” he says quietly.

“Of course.” Castiel opens his eyes and looks up at Sam. Sam is struck by the blueness of the angel's gaze, striking and intense.

“It's about Dean,” Sam says. Castiel nods, and remains where he is, prostrate on the carpet. “I just want to say…” He sighs, an exhalation of air that is drawn from somewhere deep within. “Just, be careful with Dean, please? I see him with you – he's different. Sure, he's bound to treat you like shit sometimes, but with you there's something gentle in his eyes I haven't seen in a long time.”

Castiel's lips curve into a ghost of a smile, though his tone is exceedingly grave when he speaks. “You are a very good brother, Sam,” he says, “I can see why Dean loves you above all else.” He sits up and looks Sam in the eye. “Your brother has... grown on me. There are things he makes me feel that I do not know how to understand, yet wish to. I will only stay, however, if you also want me to.”

Sam looks at Castiel, long and hard, and recognizes the enormity of what Cas is saying. He's touched. “Sure,” he says, suddenly embarrassed for trying to have “The Talk” with the angel, “just as long as you know what you're getting into with Dean.”

Castiel rises, doesn't laugh, and goes to the door. When he looks back at Sam, though, there's something close to mirth in his eyes. “I have no idea what I'm getting into. I think Dean prefers it that way.”

When Cas leaves, Sam flops down on the carpet and thinks that this is certainly a strange new world he's found himself in. Gabriel had told him something else that night in the Wildwood Hotel: he told Sam to let himself be happy.

Sam takes a deep breath, exhales, and smiles.


	13. Chapter 13

  
** Len Libby Candles, Home of Lenny The Chocolate Moose, Scarborough, ME – 11:11 AM, Eastern Standard Time **

_Total miles traveled: 4,496_

  
The air in Maine is cold and the scent of evergreen pines is strong in his nostrils as Dean stands with Sam and Castiel to behold the world's largest chocolate moose. Dean has to admit, he's impressed. The carving is solid chocolate, over 8 feet tall and over 9 feet long from nose to tail. “So this is the holy chocolate moose?” he asks, taking a lick of his double-scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

“Yes,” replies Castiel, carefully licking the edge of his own ice cream cone: Rocky Road with a scoop of bubblegum on top. Dean warned him against mixing the flavors… but hell, Cas seems happy enough.

Sam – forgoing the cone in favor of a boring old cup – takes a bite from his plain chocolate ice cream as he glances at the angel and his brother. “Why did God want you to come here, Cas?” he asks. Castiel looks resolutely away. Dean touches the angel's wrist lightly, and Cas drops his eyes to Dean's hand on his skin. He sighs.

“He didn't actually want me to come _here_ ,” Castiel admits, “I just read about this in a book once and thought it looked interesting.”

“So what did we drive all this way for?” replies Dean, barely raising his voice. Dean knows that he should be angry – outraged, in fact – at the deception. However, strangely enough, as he looks at Castiel looking back at him with earnestness and a hint of guilt he can only feel a sort of calm flood through him. He realizes that he’s not angry at all. He’s more… grateful. Castiel has given him and Sam something even his father hadn’t: a chance to just _be_.

“My father,” says Cas, raising his eyes to regard Dean and Sam, “told me to help you find happiness. He wanted me to stay with you, to make sure you and Sam could find some measure of peace within yourselves.”

“And a _road trip_ was the way to do it?” Dean asks curiously, his voice infused with the peace he sees within Cas’ serious gaze. He glances at Sam, who looks utterly floored by the admission.

“I thought,” says Castiel, hesitantly, “that it would be nice if the two of you could finally _see_ the world you live in, free of the monsters that you usually hunt. I wanted you to see America as it should be seen - not through graveyards and morgues.” He looks at Dean, almost imploring. “I wanted to you to _live_.”

Dean has no reply; he turns away, overcome with intense feelings he isn't sure how to process. Sam speaks for them, his voice little more than a choked rasp, dense with emotion. “Cas,” says Sam, “I don't know – we don't know – how can we--”

“There is no need,” Castiel interrupts, cutting Sam off. “This is my duty to you.”

Dean’s head snaps around from where he’d looked away to stare at Lenny the chocolate moose. “Is that it then?” Dean finally asks, gruff, wary. “Do you just... do you go back to Heaven now that your 'duty' to us is done?” He sounds almost bitter but can't chase it from his tone. Not when there's a chance that this might be the last time he spends time with the angel.

“Do you want me to go?” Castiel asks, eyes only for Dean. “If that is your wish, I will go.” Dean feels his heart sink. “However,” Dean's heart skips a beat, “I was hoping to stay a little longer. I understand there is a petrified wood gas station in Colorado that is worth seeing.”

Dean grabs Cas and pulls their mouths together in a sloppy enthusiastic kiss. He holds Cas tightly, fingers curled around his upper arms. The kiss tastes like chocolate, bubblegum, and mint; it should be disgusting, but Dean has never tasted anything more heavenly.

“I guess we should go see it then,” he murmurs against Cas' ice cream cold lips.

Sam coughs indiscreetly next to them. “Jeez guys, get a room,” he complains as Bitch Face One makes an appearance.

Dean laughs. And for the first time, Castiel laughs with him.

  
(The End.)


End file.
